


suddenly I don't remember the rules

by lamphouse



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: 1990s, Alternate Universe - Politics, Alternate Universe - The West Wing Fusion, Episode: s01e09 The Short List, Forbidden Love, Gay American History References, M/M, Making Out, Politics, Slow Romance, The West Wing AU, Twin Peaks References, Why Did I Write This? I Mean We Know Why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22039483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamphouse/pseuds/lamphouse
Summary: As if it wasn't hard enough juggling a forbidden gay romance with the most public facing job in the White House, now there's a crackpot senator's drug testing crusade to deal with on top of this Supreme Court nomination andno one will tell him anything. If Eddie gets out of this alive he's demanding a medal of honor. And a vacation.What if I was the Press Secretary and you were a WaPo reporter and we kissed in the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room (and we were both fully grown adult men)?
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 30
Kudos: 165





	suddenly I don't remember the rules

**Author's Note:**

> as in any context, I suggest watching _the west wing_ , specifically season 1 episode 9 "[the short list](https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x5spbpp)" (cheeky dailymotion link) which this is based on p closely before devolving into my fantasy 90s gay romcom. it's mostly intelligible w/o context, just the names will mean nothing, but yeah I'd rec watching the episode its also just really good & allison janney is a fucking treasure
> 
> for the _tww_ fans out there: so what if, in the episode where they talk a lot about the right to privacy and being on the right side of history even if its hard, there were also gay people. if like. gay people existed on west wing. and then also fixed the unevenness of cj's s1 storyline and really hammered home the privacy theme of the episode, wow, the power of gay people !

Fuck November.

Eddie's always kind of hated Washington in the winter. It's not the weather, although he hates that too. (If it's going to be cold Mother Nature should at least have the decency to give them a bit of picturesque snow to go with.) God help him but he almost misses the tourists; in the summer, the city is overrun with loud families and school trips and vacationers in fannypacks (yeah yeah, glass houses), and it sucks, sure, but at least it's different. Once the temperature stops dropping and people go back to school and whatnot, he seems to know everyone he runs into, and hates most of them. Everybody knows everybody here, and more likely than not they all know what promises you kept, what bills you failed to whip for them, which staffers you stole and which you left dangling instead. You can't walk down the street without hitting at least three people you jilted on the floors of Congress, and that's on a good day. At least the tourists create a buffer.

Also the weather sucks. He's wearing his favorite turtleneck (because it's fucking cold and he looks great) and he's got a jacket on under his coat (also great) but he left his very nice leather gloves at home so he's freezing as he flips the pages of his packet and paces the steps of the Supreme Court.

But, perspective, he's freezing on the steps of the _Supreme Court_ and they're about to announce the retirement of a _Supreme Court Justice_ so they can nominate their own _Supreme Court Justice_ in four days, so it's probably worth it.

"Hey."

It might not be worth it.

"Hey," Eddie says, not breaking his stride but glancing up. Oh goddammit, and just to make his life worse, Richie looks nice, and _cozy_. He's probably still wearing terrible suspenders under all his layers (Is that cashmere? Motherfucker...), though, which mollifies Eddie somewhat.

Even backwards, Richie's giraffe legs keep up. "Looking a little cold there, Eds."

"I'm fine, Richie." A beat. "Don't call me that."

"Is it gonna be Harrison?"

"It's—" Eddie sighs. "Why do you always ask such stupid questions? You have a Pulitzer— _somehow_ —you think you'd be able to come up with something better."

"I don't think it's a stupid question, my editors don't think it's a stupid question, and the readers of the Washington Post don't think it's a stupid question."

"It's stupid to keep asking when you know I'm not going to answer," Eddie rebuts, and he does not sigh again when Richie shrugs.

"Maybe I'm just looking for reasons to talk to you."

He flips back around, still keeping pace with Eddie's pacing.

"It's your job to talk to me," Eddie points out. "You're a reporter, I'm the press secretary, that's how this works."

"Yeah..." Richie hedges, "but this is different."

Eddie stops in his newly-worn tracks, because he knows that particular voice, and he can't do this any closer to the press pool. He glances at them—one kid with a Nikon that costs more than Eddie's car is taking a bored, artsy shot of the blue sun above the Supreme Court—before daring to look at Richie.

The first thing he notices is that he can't see Richie's eyes; the sun is high and Eddie can only make out the vague shape of eyelashes behind his glasses. Then the wind shifts and throws his hair into his face, and when Richie tries to shake it away, Eddie sees the seriousness in his face, and that his hands are stuck in his pockets in a way that somehow, impossibly, makes him look smaller.

Eddie turns just enough so no one in the pool can see his mouth. God, he doesn't want to say it. It feels so mean to say it out loud like this, but he has to.

"I can't go out on a date with you, Richie."

"Who said anything about a date?" It's mostly lighthearted—about eighty percent, if he had to guess, and Eddie's usually pretty good at those kinds of numbers.

Eddie sighs. "Okay."

"Okay."

•••

Eddie is still pacing. Pacing again? He went inside—checking in with the Justice's staff, Richie guesses, probably Carrie as she's the most competent—but the second he came back out it was right back to the pacing.

The journalist part of him clocks it as a sign something's not going right: Justice Crouch resents the President, Harrison is a blue dog snoozefest, sentences rewriting themselves in his head, each version slightly less vulgar but still as well-worded and insightful because, as he keeps trying to tell people, comedy and good reporting aren't that far apart.

The part of him that has a crush the size of an Alaskan wildlife reserve on this guy just sighs, schoolboy-like, _Gosh, have you seen Eddie's hair today, he's sooo dreamy_.

"Want my gloves?"

"What?" Eddie looks up. "Uh."

Before he can say no, Richie puts the gloves in his hands and steps back enough it would be awkward for Eddie to shove them back at him, sitting on the edge of the fountain.

"You look cold," he says again, aware that he's repeating himself but knowing it's better than blurting out the alternative, _Or we could hold hands_. He glances up at the building. All that cold, white marble holding cold, white dudes. "They've been in there for a while."

Eddie flips a page. "Mhm."

"What d'you think they're talking about? Rating senior staff by hottest to nottest?"

Eddie flips another page. "I'm anticipating any joke you could possibly make about 'senior staff' right now and I'm not finding any of them funny."

"As long as we all know the answer is 'Ben, and only because Mike doesn't technically count'." Eddie nods and goes back to pacing, but in a smaller area around where Richie is posted up, so he counts it as a win. "Do you think they're duking it out in there?"

"Who?"

"Justice Crouch and the President."

"The President and Justice Crouch are old friends," Eddie recites.

"The President and Justice Crouch can't stand each other," Richie counters.

"The man's retiring, it's what you do." Eddie waves his hand, which is when Richie realizes he put on the gloves: _the_ Eddie Kaspbrak, wearing _his_ gloves. It's almost like they're holding hands. "I don't know, what do you want from me?"

"Dinner and a show?" Richie says with a voice implying hair twirling, et cetera.

"In your dreams, Trashmouth."

"Don't I know it." Richie swings his heel against the side of the fountain for point two seconds. "So, you think Crouch is pissed because the President's settled on Harrison?"

Eddie stops pacing again to level a medium strength glare at him. "Richie."

"I did it again!"

"Yeah."

"But you know what you did? You outfoxed me, and in more than just looks this time."

"You're killing me, Richie, you really are." Eddie folds his arms over his bundle of briefings, the goofy green leather of Richie's gloves making him look vaguely Christmas-y in a deeply adorable way. "You're gonna be the death of me one day."

" _You're_ killing _me_ —"

"Don't."

"—Smalls."

Luckily the court staffer reappears and Eddie cares about his job too much to throttle Richie in front of witnesses. And the rat race begins again.

•••

Because this day was already so perfect, what with getting frostbite and all, of course he gets back to the office and there's some jackass congressman on TV trying to make Eddie's life specifically miserable.

What he wouldn't give to be back in this morning, taking an excited victory lap with Bill, full of the joy of securing administrative legacy. Instead he's fielding Stan's call of silent frustration and watching the day spiral out with a vague sense of old white man-shaped dread.

Day two. He didn't get his hour that morning, he had to rush out of the gym, fucking again, because Bill kept paging him developments in this stupid drug testing crusade. Then Ben was shifty and wouldn't meet his eye in the hallway, he only ducked about fifty percent of questions about the Lillienfield bullshit at the morning brief, on top of keeping a lid on the Harrison nom (which is getting harder the more they have to talk about it). Eddie hasn't had a second to actually think about the job he's in the middle of doing, let alone anything else.

And yet, and fucking yet, he can't stop thinking about Richie's face at the press conference. He's repeating the list in his head: the list of reasons it would be a bad idea. _You are a reporter. I'm the press secretary. It's an unavoidable conflict of interest._ He heads out to grab lunch because Carol is busy and now _Stan_ is joining the cryptic silence trend, and his hands find the gloves in his pocket again. _It would hurt my reputation. It would hurt your reputation._ He puts the gloves on anyway. _Your editors would_ —

Afternoon briefing. Everything's fine. Life is fast like this sometimes, and as the only member of senior staff who actually has to stick to their schedule, it's easy to compartmentalize the day in his memory: morning briefing one, afternoon one, evening one, morning two, etc. Today he is, maybe, a little buoyed by Steve asking if he does drugs (which he hopes doesn't get back to Bev before he can tell her himself, 'Resting Killjoy Face' his ass...) and he fumbled a bit with Chris's question, but it's fine, it's—

"Methinks Eddie's approaching the boil, someone better get him off the stove."

The aide next to Eddie in the doorway smiles and shrugs.

"What do you want, Richie?"

As if saying his name breaks some fairy vow that lets him into the real world, Richie's head pops into view with a grin.

"Just to see that gorgeous mug, Eddie my love."

Eddie shakes his head, though he doesn't manage to shake Richie, even as they snake back into the bullpen.

"You do know this is a restricted area, right? There are signs."

Richie blinks. "Where?"

Eddie blinks. "There are usually signs."

"Yeah, but they don't mind," Richie says, then pokes his head around the plexiglass divider, "right guys?"

Unfortunately, the chorus of no's is too varied for Eddie to pick out specific voices for punishment. He notices a couple of eyes flitting away as he looks, though, and makes notes—until he sees Carol raising her eyebrows in the opposite corner and flushes just a tiny bit.

Then he sees Richie, grinning smugly, and sees his eyes widen in delight when he notices Eddie's cheeks. "See? They like me, they really—"

"I wouldn't go that far, Richie," Bev says on her way past.

"Et tu, Beverle?" They're walking again, only occasionally interrupted by people handing Eddie pieces of paper he'll have to read at some point. "Anyway, you saw that little misstep back there, right?"

"What misstep?"

O Self-doubt, you foul temptress.

"Calling out Lillienfield and lifting the embargo on subpoena talk in one fell swoop."

Look at that, something about the economy and math. That looks fun. "In the context—"

"You know that doesn't matter."

Eddie does, but rolls his eyes anyway. "I _really_ don't need your help, Richie."

"I feel like maybe you do," Richie hums, "but that's not why I'm here."

"Of course it's not." Eddie sighs to the high heavens, or maybe the renovation workers upstairs, hoping they'll drop some ceiling on him too.

"You might wanna watch yourself there, babe. One of these days you're gonna need something from me and you don't want to have burned all these good-natured good loving bridges I've been building."

"I forgot my _fucking_ notebook," Eddie says mostly to himself, though he doesn't respond when Richie keeps following him to their new destination.

"Hey, Eds—"

"What?" He snaps over his shoulder.

"Mister Press Secretary," Richie continues, and that gets his real attention: Richie only deviates from his encyclopedic thesaurus of stupid nicknames when it's important, and he's never used Eddie's title in a joking way. (Eddie has maybe taken to calling himself that when he needs a little lift, but no one needs to know.)

"What?" He says again, a hint more nice. They're still walking, Eddie a step ahead of Richie despite his stride advantage, but he catches a glimpse of Richie's face looking back at him even as it pretends to look at the people and things passing them in the hall.

"Harrison is in town," Richie says over Eddie's shoulder. "Landed at National this morning."

"That's DC for you."

"Roberto Mendoza is also in town," he adds.

Eddie, who did not know that, very carefully does not let his pace falter.

"Again, it's DC."

They've made their way back to the briefing room, which is blissfully empty. It's not like the press corps don't all know Richie is kind of the favorite: he's been on the White House beat for years already; he followed the campaign closely, took them seriously before anyone else, got them some good press when they really, _really_ needed it; the President genuinely likes him, the First Lady likes him (the more prestigious honor, to be honest), _Stan_ likes him— Richie is a likeable guy, and he's gregarious and funny, crass off the record and absurdly talented on.

Everyone likes Richie, and everyone likes the stupid little double act Eddie guesses they have now, where Richie asks a question, Eddie deflects cleverly, Richie asks another question but now flirty, and Eddie, again, deflects. Whether all the reporters think it's a joke like "haha but we're not _gay_ " or just that it's funny to watch Eddie get rumpled (which is probably the case anyway) they're all fine with it, it seems, but...

Eddie's always a little afraid someone will see through the smokescreen of _just kidding_ and realize they both mean it—or, somehow more and less cataclysmic, that one day Stan will say, "And don't let Richie pull your pigtails," about something as always and it'll suddenly click.

"You sure that's all?"

The question brings Eddie back to the present: Richie, question, something Harrison, something—Mendoza. Right.

"First of all, no comment. Second of all, shut up. Third, you're still on my list after that thing last week with the VP and I _know_ ," he gets louder when it looks like Richie is going to open his mouth, "you know that, don't pretend you don't, and fourth..." Eddie runs out of bullet points like a cartoon character off a cliff, air beneath them. "Shut up again."

"I just wanted you to know you can't dodge me for long," Richie says, but Eddie has the sneaking suspicion that's not it at all.

Rather, Eddie thinks maybe Richie noticed that Eddie has been run off his feet with this drug testing bullshit and hasn't been in the loop about the nominee bullshit. Has been out of the loop often lately. Hates it.

Eddie thinks, maybe, he's trying to help.

(And of course he is, isn't that all Richie's ever doing, even when it screws Eddie and the rest of them over in the process, just trying to help, somebody, something, somewhere, even if it's the concept of well-informed democracy? Oh goddammit, he just had to have principles too. Jesus Christ...)

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Now I have to go see if Bill is ready to narc on the entire White House." Eddie snatches his notebook off the podium. "Unless you wanna do some fun stage magician misdirection with that too."

"I didn't misdirect the Hoynes thing," Richie points out. "If you'll recall, Eds, I told you pretty honestly who my source was. Y'know. Once you figured it out."

Eddie barely restrains himself from physically shooing Richie away with his notebook. "Get out of here."

"Okay," Richie says, like he always does, and his head bops and he goes. Eddie does not watch him leave. He only looks up when he knows Richie will be through the doorway, not knowing it is also the second after Richie looks away.

•••

For the record, Richie's car isn't this direction. Well, it is, but... no, actually, they're headed north, the Vienna parking garage is about fourteen miles south, it's still not where his car is. His office is that way. That's a good excuse.

He wants to talk to Bill though. Bill is nice, and he always laughs at Richie's jokes even when Eddie is corralling him out of the office, and despite his best journalistic attempts he does care about this administration, goddamn democratic optimism. So when Bill is looking for some help, Richie can't not give it. He's invested. He wants them to win, or whatever. (And he wants to protect Stan, who _never_ laughs at Richie's jokes and who Richie possibly likes even more for it. It'd be fucked up to leak anyone's suicide attempt as political fodder, but Stan? Fucking Stan? He hopes God smites that fucker before Richie gets a chance to, let alone Stan himself, that's all he's saying.)

But Richie doesn't know that for sure—he thinks, maybe, that's what Lillienfield is aiming for—so he just tells Bill it isn't about the nomination, it's something bigger, and Bill nods and turns back to the south entrance of the White House, where he'll probably stay all night.

Before he gets too far, though, Bill turns back and says, "Eddie like g-goldfish."

"What?"

"He likes goldfish," Bill repeats, and as he smiles Richie smiles. "Can't get enough of them."

If it weren't for the fact that 17th was desolate at the moment Richie would've been embarrassed about his reaction, which includes a tiny jump, sort of kicking his legs, and a fist pump straight ahead. "Yes! I take it back, Bill," he points, " _you're_ the man."

"T-that's what they tell me." Bill shrugs with his hands up, _what can you do_.

Which is how Richie ends up at the fucking Petco at eight o'clock at night.

Ah, but he loves the smell of a pet store in the evening: stale air, the mild chill of concrete flooring, and that special corporate menagerie scent. As much as he wants to linger in the aquarium kitsch aisle (plastic scuba divers will always kick ass) he heads straight for the fish wall.

Goldfish, goldfish, who's got the goldfish.

The bored teenager in a blocky red vest looks up when Richie arrives like she's hoping to see the Angel of Death, but he can't bring himself to care, high on life as he is. Sadly she is of little help (although she does point him to care and feeding instructions, which is nice) and Richie is left to stare up at the fish wall.

It turns out there are many kinds of goldfish. There are goldfish with big fins and little fins, weird bubble heads and tall pancake-thin ones, in orange and yellowish and purple and red and black (which is very cool, super punk, but classic is probably better) and white and spots and— It's a lot of choice, is what he's saying, and for a minute it's overwhelming, but then he sees it.

Eddie's fish.

It's perfect. It's just as cute as the original, which is saying a lot—

( _I'm a thirty-three year old man and the press secretary of the President of the goddamn United States, I am not_ cute _, asshole_ , the little Eddie voice in his head chimes in, and god, Richie's done for.)

—and it's got big eyes, like Eddie, and it keeps interrupting its casual drifting to swim back and forth along the bottom of the tank. In his mind's eye he sees Eddie pacing the Court steps, Eddie pacing the aisles of Air Force One with handouts, Eddie pacing the bullpen and hall in front of his office and the wobbly grass in front of a city hall in Massachusetts, the first time Richie ever saw him: stalking up and down the lawn with a sheaf of papers and muttering to himself, the pristine white shirt under the fluttering trail of his blue button up blinding both Richie's eyes and his heart. He'd looked up and seen Richie watching him with Richie doesn't know what expression on his face and didn't even snap defensively, just asked in an honestly confused way what he was looking at—and Richie's first, inexplicable thought, looking at this strange man with expensive sunglasses on his head and sunscreen stripes under his eyes, was, _Oh nothing, just the love of my life_.

All this in one little fish. Imagine that.

When Richie flags down a staff member again it's a chipper man in a polo who exudes dog show trainer energy and fishes out Richie's fish (Eddie's fish) on the first try.

"Her name is Gail," the dog shower says at the checkout.

"Sure," Richie says, but he's still gonna call her Little Eddie in his head.

•••

So now Mendoza is a whole fucking thing now. Okay, fine, whatever. Sure Eddie would be secretly glad to not take the centrist cop-out for once, and _is_ secretly glad he isn't privy to the machinations that have Stan staring at the walls more emotionlessly than usual and Ben vacillating between falling asleep sitting up and pacing in Stan's office, usually while he is staring at the walls. It still itches in the back of his mind that he somewhere along the line there was a conversation about this he got iced from, but it's fine, he'll catch up when they catch him up, per fucking usual, and until then he'll beat the current stoner news cycle to death.

Not that it seems to be working, judging by the morning editions stacking higher and higher on Eddie's desk until he can only see Richie's head in the doorway.

"'Subpoena', 'subpoena', 'subpoena', 'subpoena'.' He tosses the last paper on the pile and sits back in his chair. "Every lead in every paper."

"Yep," Richie pops as he walks all the way into the room. Eddie doesn't bother to ask who let him back here.

"Except yours."

He shrugs gently. "Couldn't spell it."

It is with this movement (uncharacteristically reserved for Richie) that Eddie realizes he's holding something.

"What is that?"

"It's a goldfish."

It is indeed—swimming around in a prototypical Fish Bowl that only complements the absurdity of the image of, again, Richie, standing in his office, holding a goldfish.

"Why?"

"It's for you."

"...Why?"

"Your birthday's soon," he shrugs that un-Richie shrug again, "and Bill said you liked goldfish, so..." He lifts the bowl slightly.

Eddie snorts. Eddie _wheezes_. He can't help it, it's just—

"What?"

"The _crackers_ , Richie, holy shit."

"Oh." Richie blinks a couple times as Eddie continues to laugh. "Right. The snack that smiles back. Okay. ...You know, I don't think I was actually supposed to get that."

Eddie rounds the desk, moving some papers as he goes. When Richie hands him the bowl he stares for a minute as his mind quickly runs through everything he knows about fish (pretty sure you have to have gravel for some reason, and a water filter or plants, something about pH?) before the little guy inside wiggles and he reflexively smiles.

"Her name is Gail," Richie offers.

"Why?"

He shrugs. "Ask the guy at the store."

"Well I'll take good care of her." Eddie smiles and nestles the bowl in between the newspapers and his desk calendar. "She'll sit on my desk and listen to all my thoughts and spy on whoever it is who keeps stealing my lotion."

"Like Elmo, if Elmo had anger management issues."

Gail comes to inspect his fingers when he wiggles them at her, which is charming enough that the realities of having a pet (an _office_ pet, though it matters less, considering he practically lives here anyway) fade to background noise.

"Is this your way of covertly admitting to having a family of pet worms back at your apartment?"

"I'll take it back if you're gonna be mean."

Richie's hands suddenly appear in Eddie's field of vision and Eddie bats them away, straightening to glare at him. Without a desk between them Eddie can see the little pinstripes in Richie's shirt, tiny bits of orange shot through the cranberry, an ugly combination that is charming much like a randomly gifted goldfish.

"No," Eddie puts his hands on his hips, feigning a sternness he feels absolutely none of, "you'll kill her."

"You think I can't take care of one lil goldfish?"

"Absolutely not."

"I got instructions and everything!"

Richie pulls a cartoony little booklet out of his pocket that says _Caring for Your New_ — And, where _Pet_ or maybe _Goldfish_ is, he's put a sticky note and written a cramped _Press Secretary_ before the exclamation point.

That note is all it takes before Eddie gives up. He can't help it. God help him but Richie's funny—and _sweet_ , is the main issue at hand, because he hands over the book with the receipt inside and simply grins quietly as Eddie sets them both on his desk. All that sternness melts into a warm ball of _fond_ that pulses in his chest.

"That..." He trails off, his eyes flitting past Richie for a second. The blinds are all closed, the door out to the bullpen shut, and the door Richie came in is... also closed. He must've shut it behind him in either a moment of courtesy or optimism. Either way it makes Eddie's heart thump like Stan's in there bouncing that stupid rubber ball of his, _thunk_ _-thunk_ , _thunk_ _-thunk_ , _thunk_ _-thunk_. "C'mere."

He kisses Richie on the cheek. He tries not to think too much about it, but then he somehow has two fingers under Richie's stupid suspenders of the day (seriously, argyle?) and one knuckle brushes the pocket of Richie's shirt and he suddenly can't remember how long they've been standing there but...

His face is very warm. When Eddie pulls back, he can see why. Though, to be fair, Eddie's face is also very warm.

"Thanks for the fish," Eddie says quietly, still smiling, still closer than he should be before taking a too-long step back as Richie nods.

"For the record, I would've picked a way better name," he takes a couple slow steps of his own towards the door. "Stan Junior, for example."

"He'd kill you," Eddie counters.

"Baby Fish Mouth."

"How d'you know she's a baby?"

"Regular Fish Mouth."

"No."

Richie shrugs, then drums on the doorframe like he does when Eddie gives him a five minute lead or exclusive on something; like he does when he's genuinely pleased.

"I'm gonna keep trying," he says, and it's not about the fish names.

"I know," Eddie says, and he can't help but smile a little, even as he saves most of it for when Richie is out of sight.

•••

The President says "Roberto Mendoza" and the cameras click like crazy, but Richie just smiles and underlines the name where he's already jotted it down in a fit of optimism. He really hopes those crazy kids work it out. He's got a genetic predisposition towards bands of scrappy underdogs, and he's never seen a bunch scrappier than these people. Perseverance and pluck and feistiness, or whatever the noun would be, well, they've all got it in spades.

Speaky of feisty: Richie feels eyes on him and he turns to see Eddie at the end of the aisle. He doesn't have to move a muscle for Richie to follow him out into the hall.

"Hey there, fishboy."

"Congratulations, Mister Press Secretary."

Eddie smiles and does a little dipping thing with his head and shoulders that's like a short range bow. If it weren't for the waiter then swanning between them with a tray of somethings Richie would pick him up and squeeze the lights out of him while Deniece Williams plays.

Instead, they squeeze their way between the sedate guests now filtering into the hall and the hurried reporters speeding past them to the back stairs. The main staircase is empty, like it's supposed to be. Honestly, Richie doesn't think he's ever been on The Grand Staircase before, but no one tries to stop Eddie and Richie's close enough on his heels that no one stops him either. Like they go together.

Catching the tail end of a look from Stan as they round the first landing, Richie says to the back of Eddie's head below him, "Just think, this time tomorrow everything'll be back to normal."

"It's the White House, when is it ever normal?"

 _This_ , Richie thinks. _This is normal_. The oddly synchronized clap of two pairs of feet echoing up the staircase, Eddie with his purposeful press secretary walk and Richie sort of galloping around him, pulling ahead and falling behind like an erratic satellite. This is _their_ normal, and thus the only normal Richie gives a shit about.

He almost says it, too, but they're in the bustle of staff now, and Eddie is snapping at different waiter for nearly running over his foot. The word circles his head, _normal, normal, normal_ , and when they finally stop for Eddie to push open another door he finally answers, "You know, international intrigue, political volleys, the two of us flirting over the heads of the White House Press Corps as they sit in bemused oblivion."

The last room before the colonnade is a shock of quiet. Aside from a few wheeling coat racks overflowed from the overflow, it's just the two of them, and in a way that feels like that sentence could end "in the entire world". It's dark, probably to discourage curious guests, and the muffling of fur and whatever makes the room feel even more closed in. He feels close; he feels _happy_. He doesn't know why, he just—

Eddie pauses with one hand on the door, and in a flash of intuition Richie suspects he's feeling the same thing. Then he glances over his shoulder with an _as if_ expression, and Richie knows.

"You call that flirting?"

It's a heavy question. Part of it is the bizarreness of having such a conversation standing still and all alone: in this building, all conversations happen while speed walking through crowded corridors. Part of it is the lack of audience: if they flirt and nobody hears it, does it make it real? Can it still be a joke? Do they have to accept that it isn't a joke?

"Playful banter between two people who enjoy each other's company and would bone down were it not for the tragic circumstances of their star-crossed careers and homophobic society?"

"One person goading another with inane questions in their place of business, despite the second's regular reminders that they could never, as you so eloquently put it, 'bone down'?"

If Richie wasn't already eighty percent of the way to in love with him, that would do it: that one sly look as he parrots Richie's stupid joke back to him with derisive over-enunciation.

"Same difference," he shrugs, and Eddie smiles, and...

For a second, that same intuition says Eddie's going to kiss him, for real this time. Right here in the Palm Room with a teeming mass of senators, ambassadors, justices, presidents on one side and reporters from every major news publication in the contiguous states on the other. It makes Richie's palms clammy and his heart stutter worse than Bill, and he can't decide if that's good or not, what he'd do if Eddie _did_ , but he knows that he wants him to anyway.

Then, like he's just realized it too, Eddie turns to the lights spilling out of the press office, then back to Richie for one more rueful moment, before leaning on the door.

"It's hard to believe you're not married." Eddie glances back again with a flippant little eyebrow, but his smile still doesn't falter, not even when the cold air hits them.

"Many have tried, Eds. Many have tried."

Above them, in the main hall, an orchestra starts playing. Down here, Eddie rolls his eyes (the only thing visible above where he's tucked his smile into his turtleneck) and the wind freezes Richie's teeth as he grins.

•••

"And I used that Georgia quote you showed me, Bill, and thank you again..."

At the end of the week—well, Thursday—Eddie is wearing his second favorite turtleneck. It's brown merino (chocolate, Bev would say, because she knows Eddie wants to but hates being called pedantic) and he likes to think it makes his chest look broader (which, judging by Richie's staring, it does) and he's feeling good. Or, at least, relieved, which is as close as he gets these days.

"He started talking about polling bumps and you could tell he lost the President immediately, like a switch flipped behind his eyes, you know..."

Ben is recounting in a genuinely rousing way how the President flipped on their nom at the last minute. They're at the bar in Dupont Circle they always go to when Bev insists they get out of the office for once. It's nice enough, and crowded in a good way, Eddie finds, where it's not too loud to hear each other but he isn't painfully aware of his own voice. Eddie can't quite help but think of it as "the one down the block from the amateur comedy club Richie lurks at when deadlines aren't tight" after one truly mortifying evening, but that's fine. He's listening to Ben's story.

"So then he asked Harrison out of the room and asked what we thought..."

It's nice, even as Eddie deals with the simmering hurt of being left mostly out of the loop. It's nice to just sit with his friends.

"Tell them what you said then," Bev prods.

"I said to put him on a bus."

"No, not that." Bev prods him again, now literally, with the neck of her beer bottle. "The speech."

Mike smiles even as Ben blushes. "Based on the President's face after, I'd say it was pretty impressive."

"I don't really remember," Ben demurs, "but it was about how privacy will be a defining issue of our future."

"'I'm talking about the Internet, cellphones, health records, who's gay and who's not'," Stan quotes somberly, then smiles in his Stan way at Bill's inexplicably concerned look. "And then he went on about how those were protected, and that was freedom, and that made it the most fundamentally American right of all. It was very noble."

Bev snickers and Ben shrugs as Bill and Mike do a little standing ovation bit, but Eddie doesn't react at all. Bill moves on to wondering if this is where they're finally going to turn things around, which Mike thinks it is, thinks the future is bright and... Eddie agrees. Maybe. For once.

"Hey guys."

"You know, we've seen real progress in the House, we're securing our administrative legacy or whatever you want to call it," Mike says as Bill nods.

" _Guys_."

Bev looks over. "What's up, Eds?"

The clatter and chatter of the bar fills the brief pause, and he almost doesn't do it (Do what, he's barely decided—he hasn't decided at all, he's just gonna _do_ it like he never does.) but then Stan's elbow touches his, and when Eddie looks up his face isn't any different but it soothes some neurotic animal in Eddie anyway.

"I am," he says. Bev's look turns into a question. "'Who's gay and who's not'. Me. I'm gay."

And in the quiet in the middle of the loud of the bar, his friends look at him and Eddie feels... calm. He feels safe. In the middle of a room full of people he doesn't know but that could very well know him, Eddie feels safe, because in that room full of strangers he has his people, and they do know him—not "of" him but the real Eddie he is.

"Thanks for telling us, Eds," Mike says. Bill wraps his arm around Eddie's shoulder and Stan's elbow is there again, stronger.

"Yeah, and I—" Suddenly excitement wells in his throat, and it's not just the third grasshopper he ordered despite the group's gentle ribbing. "I gotta make a call."

"O... kay?" Ben says as Eddie slips out from under Bill's arm, missing the dawning realization on the other man's face, and the way Stan meets his eye and nods.

Suddenly outside his little bubble the bar seems a lot louder, so Eddie ducks out, without his coat, and powerwalks to the payphone across the street. Thankfully there's change in his pocket, and he's wearing long sleeves which he can pull over his hands to pick up the phone and dial a number he pretends not to know, waiting, praying for the answering machine.

"Yello?"

"Richie," Eddie's free hand pulls up into a fist by his temple. "Hi. It's Eddie."

Something clatters. "Yeah, hi. Hey Eds."

His standard retort is on the tip of his tongue, but said tongue is loose with, again, two and a half grasshoppers and it falls back into his mouth and gets swallowed in favor of, "Hi."

Over the shitty connection Eddie still hears the click-fizz of a TV shutting off, and he can almost see it: Richie on an ugly couch, suspenders and shirt still on but unbuttoned halfway to reveal whatever stupid slogan tee is underneath, piles of paper and dirty glasses on the coffee table.

It looks like the night Eddie had wandered into the press office to see Richie posted up with some late show and Chinese and he'd joined him, because he didn't want to go home to an empty apartment and last night's unfinished wine yet, because Richie had cream cheese rangoons (Eddie's favorite) despite not liking them that much, because he was too tired to convince himself he didn't want to.

It makes Eddie's chest hurt.

"Dude are you... good? Something I can do for you?"

"Do you like skating?"

"What?"

"Ice skating." Eddie's hands are shaking from the cold and nothing else, he's almost certain. "You know, like, the sculpture garden? I mean, not there, that would— But you live in Reston, right? There's a nice rink out there."

Richie voice is tight. "Falls Church, but yeah, I know the one you're talking about."

"So. Do you like ice skating?"

"Eddie..."

His bare hand presses against the glass of the booth, eyes shut and head down as he says softly, "Just answer the question, Rich."

Richie's breathing crackles in his ear, first as a deep breath, then as an exhaling laugh. "Well, I'm not wild about ice skating, but what the hell, right? For you, anything."

It doesn't come off as a joke. It doesn't come off as a joke at all.

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Eddie, I don't..."

Some drunken monument-hopping college idiot _children_ bump into the phone booth and Eddie glares at them (except the redhead with glasses who smiles apologetically as she corales her friends) until they shove off.

"Hang on, I— Sorry, it's really cold out here and I forgot my jacket, can I call you back?"

"You're outside?" Richie laughs, with what Eddie could swear is a slightly hysterical edge. "Outside, without a coat, in November. You."

"Shut up, I had to—" Despite the fact that Richie can't actually see him, Eddie can't help gesturing. "It was a whole thing, the bar was super crowded but Ben did this speech and the fucking— Right to privacy and I realized I didn't want to..."

Richie's voice pitches down to match where Eddie has trailed off to. "Didn't want to what?"

"I didn't want to wait." Eddie takes a deep breath and then the words come spilling out. "I _don't_ want to wait. If the world is just going to get more complicated and depressing and invasive and scary and—"

"Eddie—"

He's not hyperventilating, he's _not_ , but he wishes for a second he still thought he had asthma and an inhaler for something to do with his hands, and for this sudden lightheadedness he is coincidentally feeling.

"I don't want to do any of that without you," he blurts instead. "I don't want any of that to keep this from happening. And if you don't care about the risks then I don't either." He definitely does, but whatever.

"It's not that I don't care," Richie says. "I'm not a total idiot, I know the real world exists, that's my whole... _job_ , I just... don't care about that as much as I do, uh, you."

Eddie glances up at the bar, the blurry shape deep past the window he only recognizes as his friends (his family) because he knows they're there. "Do you want to come over? Cuz I don't _really_ wanna have this conversation, but if I have to I'd much rather do it in person."

"Yeah."

"Yeah?" Eddie hears a scruffle sound he instinctively knows is Richie nodding. "Okay."

Richie smiles through the phone. "Okay."

•••

The first thing Richie notices when Eddie opens the door is the slightly awkward way his hair has gone wavy in places. It vaguely reminds him of stump speeches and makes his heart beat like one of those hundreds of high school marching bands.

The second thing he notices is Eddie's thick woolen socks, and— _jeans_ , Eddie hates wearing jeans in the office, which is a crime but maybe also a miracle for Richie's job security, and his sleeves pushed up, oh god, his arms.

The third is Eddie's mouth moving.

"...in?"

"Huh?"

Eddie rolls his eyes, pulling him inside by the elbow.

"Good to know you aren't a vampire," he says, locking the door. "Tomorrow we'll get out the silver bullets, see if you're a werewolf."

"I used to have nightmares about being a werewolf," Richie says vaguely. He may be having a panic attack. Maybe a micro seizure. Eddie would know.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He shakes his head like the fog in his brain is real. "As a kid. Really dicked with my Michael J. Fox crush."

"I used to have nightmares about infectious disease zombies," Eddie offers. "Now Carol has to read any memos from the CDC."

"Cute."

When Eddie doesn't tell him off, just somehow takes his coat without actually touching him, Richie's heart skips into overdrive. "I've never been to your place. S'nice. Leafy. Gentrified. Walking distance from the big house."

"My liberal conscience and government salary won't let me drive every day." He turns to the coat rack. "I still find time for my baby, though."

"Your what?"

Eddie shoots him a quick glance like he's aware he will soon be mocked but by god he's gonna say it anyway. "My baby blue '65 Mustang convertible."

And the heavens opened up and lo an angel did appear, arms folded and eyes daring him to say something, fucking try him.

"Oh god," Richie says in a conspicuously casual voice after a conspicuously casual pause.

"It took me three years to rebuild with original parts and I only take it out on Sundays between March and October."

"I can't tell if I'm on the verge of pinching your cheeks, coming in my pants, or crying all over your very nice shirt, so unless you wanna find out you should stop talking now."

"That's disgusting," Eddie says, quite blasé.

Richie shrugs. "Your fault."

Another long pause before Eddie (almost literally, what with the socks) spins in place and stalks down the hall.

"I didn't really plan this far," he says over his shoulder as he turns into what Richie guesses is the living room.

"Okay."

Richie discretely checks that his socks match.

"I mean, I have a general idea, but not like an agenda or anything."

They do not: one is black, one is dark blue, but you can't tell unless you're looking right at them, so he starts untying his shoe. So his shirt is wrinkled and unbuttoned-ish and Calvin and a bit of Hobbes peek out. Whatever. It's fine, it's Richie, it's to be expected.

"Before I thought I would just kiss you. Y'know, on the mouth. So I could just... get over it. But then Ben was talking about this meeting in the Oval..."

"The right to privacy thing, right?" It isn't until he's pulling off his other shoe that his brain catches up, at which point his body falls behind and he slips to the floor. " _Shit_. Wait, you thought you'd _what_?"

As Richie is disentangling himself from his own legs, Eddie's head pokes back into the hallway to squint at him. "Kiss you, Richard, keep up."

"When?" Richie squeaks.

"What the hell are you doing?" Eddie processes the scene. "Are you okay?"

"I— Your floor is very slippery."

"I had it polished last weekend." He watches with the vaguest hint of amusement as Richie picks himself up off the floor and sets his ancient sneakers with the others by the door. Running shoes and dress shoes and a pair of pristine hiking boots Richie would kill to hear the story behind. "Your socks don't match."

"Oh. Yeah, I got dressed in the literal dark this morning. Early morning. Had to see a man about some fish food." When Eddie doesn't immediately volley something about his usual fare, he adds, "Uh, sorry?"

Eddie shrugs. "I don't mind. It's sorta cute."

He disappears again and Richie slip 'n slides his way after him with only passing (albeit incredibly curious) glances at the tasteful framed photos on the walls. He catches sight of a wonky colored Instamatic of a man and a boy and a car, and the man kinda looks like Anthony Perkins the way Eddie kinda looks like Anthony Perkins, and Richie wants to stop and look closer but the quiet is suspicious now and he's gotta slide on, trying not to creep.

Just outside the entryway he gets struck by this little tiny fear that Eddie won't be there, or it'll be some other Eddie, that he'll have fallen through a wormhole into a universe where this never happened. It's completely irrational but still, to be so close and lose it...

He had a dream the other night that felt like this, almost. In the dream he had died but not really died—and he wasn't sure how he knew this, only that he did—and he was walking through Air Force One. He kept walking into things like they weren't quite where they were supposed to be, everything an inch to the left. He ran right into a drink cart and all the little presidentially sealed glasses rattled, but no one looked up. He talked to Steve, to Bobbi, to Sandy, to Chris—who, to be fair, didn't like Richie, but she wasn't _that_ rude.

He was trying to find Eddie, he remembers, because there was somebody in his seat, but Eddie wasn't where he was supposed to be either. In _his_ seat there's a tall woman, almost as tall as Richie, and she finally sees him, but she stands and she says, _You're not supposed to be here_. Richie tries to apologize but gets distracted when the floor beneath them ripples, the low floppy sound of a waterbed coming clearly from the carpet, and she stops a passing attendant who says (without prompting) that they're over Missoula.

She nods.

 _Where the fuck is Missoula?_ Richie asks.

 _The far end of the solar system_ , she says. And the carpet wobbles, and sags, further and further, until Richie sinks through the bottom.

And that fear, of falling and never being heard from again, of being left somewhere on the furthest edges, unable to crawl his way back, propels him through the doorway.

The sight is almost comically staged. Everything is so neat, knick knacks and coffee table books all perfectly spaced and arranged. Eddie is standing super casually at the mantle. Richie half expects to see electrical tape under his feet, marking his mark. He gets the feeling there's some metaphorical tape for him too, and some cosmic penalty for missing his cues, but when he just lingers awkwardly right inside the doorway Eddie doesn't seem to mind.

"So what do unenumerated rights have to do with you... not... kissing me?"

"Nothing."

"Okay...?"

"No, it's not—" Eddie sighs and takes one single step closer before stopping again. "It still has to do with me kissing you."

Richie has been told, many times, by many people, that when he's hearing something important his face tends to shut down. It's usually fine; reporters are supposed to be neutral. It is not, however, helpful in situations like this, because while Richie's insides are starting a riot-cum-tickertape parade (in the Latin sense) and trashing his fucking endocrine system, his face is a blank slate, and because Eddie is already scrutinizing his every microexpression there's no way he can reboot fast enough to avoid the panic starting in three—

"Or wanting to kiss you, but that would be true either way—you're so infuriating like that, you know. Even when I've made up my mind to not actually do anything you show up again with your stupid face and your jokes and your incredible talent and your way of, of getting at me. But I had a plan, I was going to just kiss you and get over—"

Of course, it doesn't help that every time he says 'kiss you' Richie shuts down again.

"—this, whatever, this. Boyish fixation, and then I could get back to my doing my job, my _very_ important job, and it would be fine. I would be fine! It's a crush, I'd move on, and maybe I'd miss your confusingly worded compliments where I can't even tell if they're backhanded or forwardhanded or sideways... whatever-I-don't-know but I could still do my job just fucking fine."

"Eddie."

"But then today with the nomination—which is gonna suck so bad to manage, the man is a PR nightmare, and fuck, this is off the record."

"Of course it is," Richie says, immediately and kind of offended, "Eddie—"

"I know, I just—reflex."

"Sure."

When Richie takes a step forward, and then another, to no reaction, he keeps going until they're within arm's reach. This close he can see the wrinkles in the sleeves of Eddie's turtleneck where they're pushed halfway up his forearms, and all the fine little freckles and moles there that suggest some acquaintance with the sun that makes Richie briefly dizzy.

"We all went out to celebrate," Eddie starts, and it's obvious he's gearing up to something, so Richie shuts up. "Ben and Stan were talking about the meeting with Harrison, and how the biggest issue of the next twenty years or whatever is going to be privacy, all the things the government shouldn't be able to demand of you, the way that the world is getting bigger and smaller at the same time and everyone knows everyone's business, especially in _this_ business, and I'm the second most public face in the entire administration behind the _President_ , which is a whole different level of bullshit.

"And usually that freaks me out, right? But I was looking at all these people, my _friends_ , my _family_ ," he karate chops the air in a way that is somehow more aggressively affectionate than angry, "and how any of them would go to the mat for me, to protect _me_ and I was there worrying about people knowing that I'm— _gay_ , that I— And you were there too, protecting me even though you _know_ I don't need it—"

"I know."

"I know!" Eddie does the gesture again. "I know. And I realized that just because I don't want to broadcast every second of my life doesn't mean I have to be this... paranoid neurotic mess, that being a private person doesn't mean I have to be _alone_ , and—"

"Eddie," Richie says again, but gently, not meant to interrupt.

Eddie stops anyway. "I don't want to be alone anymore."

"Okay."

"But I don't want to be with you just because I don't want to be alone," Eddie clarifies.

"Okay."

"I want to be with you because..." He shrugs. "I want to be with _you_."

Richie doesn't think he's ever heard a more beautiful sentence. All he can do is nod, and Eddie, suddenly, goes shy. They stand there for one long moment simply staring at each other, then another, but it doesn't make Richie nervous or fidgety or anything. Looking at Eddie is enough to keep him occupied for hours.

Eventually something shifts in Eddie's face, and then in his stance, and his whole body as he takes one last step forward, Richie's personal bubble bending to admit him.

"So I guess my new plan is to say... that," he says, "and _then_ kiss you."

And he does. And it's... everything.

Richie tries hard to keep it romantic but casual. Not to the point of coldness, obviously, but still reining it in about 80% so it isn't _too_ obvious he's wanted to do this since basically the day they met (even though Eddie's hand is on the small of his back almost instantaneously, so it's probably fine anyway).

So, instead of the crying and clinging that his body wants to do the second Eddie's lips finally meet his, Richie stays cool. His hand alights on Eddie's cheek with gentle pressure until Eddie tilts up into it (cutting the ribbon on the wing of Richie's brain now dedicated to repeating _Eddie is small, Eddie is small, Eddie_ is _small_ , for eternity) and the tips of his fingers slip into the gentle waves on the back of his neck.

His face is as soft as Richie always imagined and his hair even more so, but none of it compares to Eddie's mouth. He licks lightly at the seam of Eddie's lips, not in a goofy way, just to say, _we're both adults and I already know you so well, this already starting out so much more, so it's okay to use a little tongue on the first kiss, I'm not saying we have to go any further right now (unless you want to...), just that we know we could some day and it wouldn't be the end of the world_.

It's an eloquent move, which is good because when Eddie's other hand finds his at their sides and tangles their fingers together, back-to-palm, Richie pretty much loses higher functioning.

"So..." Eddie says, a little winded, when they part. "Thoughts?"

"Uh, none," Richie's mouth says, because, again, "You broke my brain."

He nods, but his eyes are also unfocused, wandering all around Richie's face. "Okay, good. That's what I was going for."

"Well mission fucking accomplished, babe." Richie can feel Eddie's eyes crinkle, smiling not really smiling, under one hand as Eddie squeezes the other, which reminds him to add, "And by the way, this?" He shakes their hands. "Is a very low blow."

Eddie raises one eyebrow in a look of challenge that Richie's seen a million times directed at a million people but that, by virtue of its concentration and proximity, is now immediately filed in his spank bank/hope chest/vision board/hidden safe where he will cherish it for fucking ever.

"You call _that_ a 'low blow'?"

Before Richie can get out his undoubtedly clever retort, Eddie leans his temple against Richie's and moves their tangled hands under his turtleneck, under his undershirt, to the hot soft skin of his waist. Richie doesn't know what his face is doing exactly, what with his feverish brain melting at the bright white experience of skin-to-Eddie-skin contact, but whatever it is makes Eddie huff a laugh when he leans back to kiss him again.

The thumb of the hand on his back catches in his suspenders (confirming an age-old suspicion that Eddie was secretly into them, score) as Eddie abandons Richie's hand where it is in favor of wrapping his arm around as much of Richie's shoulders as he can. Eddie keeps tugging him closer until their knees are brushing and Richie is bowed over him, a move that makes Eddie's face feel even smaller in his hand.

"M'not short," Eddie murmurs before kissing him again, migrating across to the end-of-business stubble on his cheek and under his jaw.

"Are you psychic?"

"No, you're just predictable."

Richie tries to respond but then Eddie's mouth is on his neck like he's trying to suck Richie's brains out through his jugular and all that comes out is, "Gyeh."

Unperturbed, Eddie hums once, then again when Richie's hand slides into his hair, covering almost the entire back of his head. He can feel the sound in his own throat, vibrating his vocal chords, which is kind of sexy in a possession way; makes him wish he'd gotten that apartment in Georgetown just so he could take Eddie home to it. Eddie wouldn't laugh, but then he _would_ , and Richie would drag him backward up the stairs with jokes about pea soup and his mother and Eddie would still not laugh but in a way that means he's laughing and...

Instead he mumbles something about vampires that makes Eddie laugh, right against the blossoming bruise that falls right below where his collars all end. Under that blistering feeling Richie realizes that means Eddie's been paying attention (a win for his ego) but also that he's gonna have to actually wear his tie all day tomorrow (a win for Eddie's professionalism crusade). This, like the _Exorcist_ thing, should not be sexy, but it really, really is, because it reminds him that this is actual Eddie kissing him senseless in his apartment and not anyone else.

With this realization under his belt, metaphorically but a little literally too, Richie is moderately more prepared when Eddie returns to kiss him again, even as he sucks his tongue out of Richie's head ( _awesomeawesomeawesomeawesome_ ). He lets his hand wander from where it had been mindlessly groping around Eddie's waist—or, to be more accurate, where his hand was moving restlessly and just happened to have been touching Eddie at the same time. His back is miraculously unsweaty, which Richie resents, but when he migrates back around and the heel of his hand brushes Eddie's stomach, he gets the messy reaction he was looking for.

As Eddie's mouth falls open against his in something more concrete than a sigh, Richie's fingers seek out his hip, the last two dipping under his waistband for half of half a second. He follows the line of his jeans around, the tips of his fingers on Eddie's skin with just enough pressure (even though Richie has been dying to ever since Bill accidentally mentioned that Eddie was ticklish about a year ago, not important right now). More important is the way Eddie leans his whole upper body into Richie as he kisses him again and the little pocket of air between his hip and his stomach and the overwhelming warmth Richie feels sinking through his skin into the deepest parts of him that have never seen the sun.

God, one kiss and he's turning into some pop rock balladeer.

He's lost in the slow rhythm of their lips when suddenly Eddie pulls back, leaving him blinking into the living room he could've sworn was dark a second ago. Eddie's eyes are still closed, or maybe closed again, so Richie takes a quick second to look at him as he lets out a long stream of air.

"Right." Eddie claps his hands on Richie's chest before his eyes snap open like he didn't mean to do that. "Uh. That's probably enough for now."

Richie takes his hand out from under Eddie's shirt (an action whose novelty is almost enough to overcome the bizarre feeling of loss) and sort of lets it hang awkwardly at his side.

"...Okay."

Eddie laughs loud then, startling even himself, and shakes his head. When his hands stay on Richie's biceps, Richie takes it as a sign and wraps both arms around Eddie's waist in return (above the clothes this time).

"God, what is it with you and that fucking word?"

"It's important to confirm things," Richie starts, but Eddie groans (in dismay, to be fair) and leans back within the confines of Richie's arms, so he's understandably distracted.

"Oh, don't pretend this is one of your journalistic whatevers."

"Sorry, who here has a Pulitzer?"

"I'm still not convinced you didn't bribe someone to get that," Eddie squints ( _up up up_ , they're standing so close, toe to toe, stomach to stomach, although carefully not dick to dick, that's fine) and hangs his hands over Richie's shoulders in a very smug way. "Meanwhile I have a master's, which you can't fake."

"Okay, but it's in PoliSci, so... how hard could that really be?"

It flips a switch back to the squinting. God, but Richie loves how easy it is to rile him up.

"Hey." Eddie pokes him in the chest. "I went to _Berkeley_ , asshole. Incredibly hard."

"I'll show you in—"

"Absolutely not."

" _You're_ the one who put my hand up your shirt."

Breaking free of Richie's grip, Eddie shoves his finger in his face a few times silently before poking him again and saying, "Seventy Nobel Laureates. _Seventy_."

"Well gee, I guess I can only think of the one of ours, but maybe you've heard of him, he's your boss?"

Eddie scoffs and pushes past him to the hallway, and Richie feels pulled along in his wake like a cartoon character after pie fumes.

"Hm, turns out I _did_ have to kiss you once to get over it."

"No!" Richie slides _Risky Business_ -ly ahead and throws an arm out to stop him. Eddie walks into it anyway with a purposeful little smirk, and leans in it when Richie puts his hands on his biceps. "I've got this. Lemme win your favor, Eds."

"Off to a great start." He quiets when Richie waves his hands and folds his arms expectantly.

"Eddie Kaspbrak," Richie begins solemnly, "you have the cutest little butt in professional politics."

The smirk briefly becomes a smile.

"You are so good at your job, your insults are fantastically specific, I could listen to you talk forever, and your little reading glasses are cute in every definition of the word. Will you please, _please_ let me go down on you one day?"

For all of thirty seconds, Eddie is able to school his expression into something resembling a poker face before he snorts, laughs, and covers his face with both hands, groaning. Richie is in physical pain; it's in his ribs somewhere, near the top, but there's nothing important near that, right?

"Please?" He kisses one of Eddie's hands. "Please?" The top of his head. "Please?" His ear.

"Shut _up_ ," Eddie hisses from behind one hand as the other swats at Richie's face, then grabs his suspenders when he threatens to actually pull away. Well, if he's going to give Richie no choice...

"No! Richie, I swear to— Put me down, you fucking _freak_."

"One pocket-sized presidential aide, coming right up," Richie says as he carries-slash-drags Eddie across the apartment to where he assumes (correctly) the kitchen is. And even though he has to drop Eddie back on his feet after a minute, Richie still feels like he could run a marathon or stop a speeding train with the force of his happiness alone—and that, alone, is worth a thousand little shin bruises.

•••

"Gays in the White House," Richie's voice appears in his ear, barely audible under the President's monologue response to Katie's benign question.

"You keep saying that every time we run into each other, one of these days someone's gonna hear," Eddie says, turning his head slightly more than he needs to and leaning into the marginal warmth known as Richie's personal space, eyes still on the pool. He points to Chris and sniffles.

"Are you sick?"

"I have a cold," Eddie glares back at him quickly, "because _someone_ made me late yesterday morning so I had to go out, in the cold, with wet hair."

Richie starts getting smug—Eddie doesn't actually need to see—so he adds, "Also, we were both already separately gay in the White House."

He feels a tap tap on the heel of his shoe, what's quickly become their little shorthand for _and here's where I would kiss you_. As Richie would say, cute.

"Sure, _passively_."

"Lucy, then Mark," Eddie says at normal volume.

"But now there's active gay in the White House," Richie continues, verbally wiggling his eyebrows, "if you know what I mean."

A flash of the copier room a few ultra-late nights ago, lured by pretty transparent pretenses about early birthday presents and then tucked into the shadowy corner behind the locked door, Eddie's hands on Richie's face and his whole weight pinning him to the wall like a giant, fidgety butterfly.

"No, I got it. Still probably not a first."

The air beside his head moves in what Eddie knows is Richie's faux-sage nod. "Lincoln."

"Buchanan."

"Midge—"

"Shh."

"Right. Lady Roosevelt."

"Ed and Larry."

"No shit?"

"Maybe not 'active' yet," Eddie qualifies, then to the room, "Alright folks, the President has an average day today, which in layman's terms means 'busy beyond belief', so let's get a move on."

As Richie sidles past him to join the departing gaggle, Eddie tap taps him on the arm with his folder, and Richie glances back with a tiny smile on his big face. It's a little look for Eddie alone, in one of the most famous rooms in the country, just for him, and it makes his fucking heart stop. Stutter. Play double dutch and skip stones offscreen his bloodstream. Just for him. All for him.

And standing, there, in this seat of government, that for-him-ness becomes the greatest responsibility Eddie has ever had. Sure, there are other things, civic duty and truth and the nation and his stitched-together family, but that smile rockets up to number one—and there's no longer any question about conflicting interests or where his loyalties lie, whatever, because he's good at his job. He's good at his job, he _loves_ his job, and you know what, he loves this job too, the job of making Richie smile like it seems no one else can, of straightening his tie and letting him buy lunch and always keeping his eye out for flailing elbows that could catch Eddie in the eye because he's so adamant about whatever he's talking about. Whatever Eddie does he puts his whole damn heart into, he does it well and he does it wholly, and there's nothing that could stop Eddie from doing the exact same in loving Richie.

So Eddie thanks the President, hand on the doorknob, and ducks out after the corps, after Richie, ready for whatever's next.

**Author's Note:**

> (and then he gets a cold and that's why he misses thanksgiving that year BOOM baby suck on THAT, sorkin)
> 
> an au for approximately five people! but one that I've thought about a LOT and that has a lot of accidentally good permutations—like, if ben is sort of sam, and eddie is cj, the bit in shadow of two gunmen when sam doesn't tell cj he saved her life bc he doesn't want her to feel in debt to him; if bill is josh-ish, the nsc card storyline; if stan is toby NOTHING bc in MY world toby and andy are happy together FOREVER.
> 
> uh this fic has a LOT of annotative notes in the wip google doc with like... stupid references and fun facts (one you might wanna know anyway: midge is midge constanza, the closeted assistant in public liaison for carter who organized the historic meeting w the national gay task force in the wh) so if anyone wants to hear those, hit me up in the comments. or just hit me up anyway! I'd love to hear if anyone else likes this but me lmao
> 
> eta: or not, [here it is anyway lol](https://lamphous.tumblr.com/post/619479740156411904)
> 
> title from "[this night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wNOXu_yoDYI)" by billy joel, unfortunately, because my mom brought it up. it isn't even the billy joel song I snuck in a sneaky reference to! (it's not that sneaky, eddie literally says the title.) as if it wasn't enough I wrote a whole ass west wing au IN WHICH THEY APPEAR, my parents' taste in music also had to dictate the title, smh...
> 
> tumblr @[lamphous](http://lamphous.tumblr.com/)


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